When Dragons Call
by AoibhealDragonheart
Summary: In the province of Skyrim, the dragonborn returns. He is sent on epic adventures, dangerous quests, and learns the true meaning of what it means to be Dovahkin. Something that had been lost in the sands of time long before.
1. On High

She drew her cloak closer about her face as the wind threw more snow and hail around. The sting still reached what little skin was exposed to the elements, but she spurred her horse further on. The mountain may be tall, but she was almost at the top, or what would be considered its peak by most.

High Hrothgar.

It was the pinnacle of the entire province of Skyrim. It was here the Grey Beards dedicated their lives to the Thu'um, and their master.

Paarthurnax.

Beneath her, her horse whinnied, and snorted. Its breath fogged the air around them, and her fur lined face set in a grimace as another gust of cold, wintry air was tossed in their direction. "Easy girl," she whispered as she patted the neck of her mount to calm her down. "We're nearly there."

The sky grew dark as the clouds drew closer together, a storm was brewing, one far greater than any they had faced on their journey yet. Which, they had faced many on their long trek across Tamriel in search of the one that had awakened her from her slumber, and the call all in the lands had heard.

The dragonborn, bloodkin to the dragons and the gift carrier of Akatosh himself, had at last returned to complete what so many had failed at before. To defeat Alduin, king of the dragons.

Or so he had assumed himself to be, in truth he was but a mere prince, and not fit to rule anyone, let alone an entire race of dragons. A race that the humans of Tamriel, along with their allies, had wiped from extinction many years before. But now, they were back, and some were afraid. Afraid of what the end bringer would do should he get his wish.

Even they, his loyal servants and followers, would not survive. All would be lost. The world be born anew, and every last piece of their history would be lost, forever, in the waves of time.

Out of the growing darkness, the sun peeked its last rays through the storm, and before her stood High Hrothgar in all its ancient glory. Its stone walls covered in frost, cracks in every last stone used to lay the foundation, cast a sad outlook on the once strong order of men and women who had once served as teachers to the dragonborn.

She knew she was not going to be welcome here. There was much that she had to make up for before she could be accepted by Paarthurnax once again. There had been many years she could have put an end to Alduin, and, once, she had tried. But circumstances had changed her fate. She would no longer be strong enough to rise up against the dark dragon, her allies had changed sides many eras ago, and would not be easily persuaded to do so again. This she knew to be certain, and would be the second most difficult task, or perhaps even third, that she would face in the upcoming months.

Her horse grew quiet as they neared the steps, its muscles tensed, and its ears drew back, as if sensing danger. Was it inside? She knew not. All she knew was danger was near, and as quickly as she could she cast a very power spell of invisibility over her steed, and leapt from the saddle in the count of two breaths. She tethered her mount to a nearby branch sticking out of an ice covered rock and crouched as low as was possible. A man approached from behind. He wore a mantle made of steel, and his clothes were leathers and furs. On his back he carried a large, iron battle-ax that was greatly dented, and with her vision she could see the crack that split it nearly in twain. To any who glanced at him from the corners of their eyes, they would see a very scary, dangerous man. To her, she saw a warrior, one who had been fighting their whole life, perhaps not in the normal, usually thought of, sense, but he was a warrior regardless. Even his weapons said so.

She took cover behind the nearest boulder and peered over its top. The man did not seem to see her. Whether he had terrible eye sight, being of the Nordic race, or he just could not see from the helm atop his head, she could not tell. But he bound up the steps of High Hrothgar and took the large knockers in his hand. He pulled them back twice, and let them fall, a loud _clang_ echoing through the snow covered mountain range. There was quiet that followed, for what felt like too long. The Grey Beards were old, but they could move as fast as any child when they felt the need to. It worried her that they had not made it to the door yet, and was about to leave the cover of the landscape, when there was a loud scraping sound of wood on stone, and the door began to move.

"Welcome young man, come in, I assume you have travelled here for the calling of the dragonborn," Arngeir , the oldest member of the Greybeards, peered through the slit in the door and took in the man who stood before him. He appeared to be a brute, just as the last man who had found his way to their doorstep had looked. But, this one was different. He could not tell why he knew, nor how, but there was just something about the way the man stood that spoke to him, and so he let him in without any of the normal questions and tests he had offered the other's who had climbed the five thousand steps to test themselves.

Once they had entered, she leapt from her hiding spot, noticing the footprints the Nord had left behind had already begun to disappear in the snow, as her horses hoof prints had done mere minutes before that. Swiftly, she flew over the drifts and ran up the stone steps to the nearest window. From her perch she peered into the confines of the dark, stone, room. There the Greybeards stood, talking to the Nord, and she strained to hear over the howling wind what was being said.

They were testing him. This she knew for certain. She watched in awe and uncertainty, as he learned the Thu'um they had to offer with ease, and continued out into the courtyard. She followed, as stealthily as she could, and hid around the corner as she watched the Nord learn a brand new Thu'um.

She was impressed.

Surely this Nord had potential. But was he the real deal? Arngeir seemed to think so. The snow seemed suspended in the air, here, but the wind still howled, making it difficult for her to hear. But there were a few words that could not be mistaken. "Retrieve the horn of Jurgen Windcaller."

Yes, Arngeir had great faith in this Nord and his potential as the dragonborn. This would be the final test, and should he not pass he would most surely die in the tomb.

But, she felt he would pass. However, she would follow him, just in case. And, should he turn out to be the real deal, she would ask his aid. Though, he had no reason to help her. The dragon's had done much to his people in the past, and would surely continue their torment now that Alduin had returned his generals and foot soldiers to Nirn.

He left the mountain, seeming to flee, running all the way back down to the very base. She was surprised he had so much stamina. Nor were there any enemies left to fend off. He had left a wake of blood and death behind him on the way up, it seemed. On his decent any that had remained seemed reluctant to approach him, even the savage beasts seemed to give him a wide berth.

Back in the town of Ivarstead he seemed to scare most women and children back into their huts. The few people he approached were hesitant to answer him, even the merchants seemed vary. But he was nothing but polite to them, odd for a brute. But, she mused, he was amongst his own kind. Perhaps he didn't want them to fear him, not completely anyway. She waited for him to leave, and left her mount in the capable hands of a farmer, who seemed happy to accept the responsibility of taking care of her for the small sack of coins she had offered. Not much money seemed to pass through the settlement, but every small bit of copper brought smiles to the faces of the villagers. In some, small way, she was doing her part.

It was difficult to track the Nord, he moved through the paths of the forest as well as any trained elf she had ever known. Barely a twig was broken as he walked across the ground, as if his feet barely touched the earth despite his size. There were a few times she thought she had lost him, luckily she knew where he was heading, and quickly picked the trail back up shortly after. After travelling through the night, they had finally made it. They had reached Ustengrav.

He appeared weary, as he stood by the door, leaning against it as if an old man stood where the young one once had been, and needed the aid of the wall for support. But, soon after, he opened the door and stepped inside.

She waited.

For several hours, the time seemed to drag on, as if stopped by magic. She debated amongst herself on whether she should follow him inside or not. She knew the traps that had been set millennia before. Had helped set them herself when Jurgen's time had come and he had been called to the Hall of Valor but his ancestors. Finally, as the sun began to set once more over the vast lands of the land around her, she stepped through the door and into Ustengrav.

The traps were easier than she remembered them being. Perhaps the ones who had set them with her had not known what the future would hold, she knew she certainly hadn't, but still, they were meant to test the dragonborn. And, it became very apparent to her as she flew through the tomb with ease, that anyone could make it through them.

Finally, she reached the innermost chamber, where Jurgen had been laid to rest by those who were long since dead. It worried her that she had not once come across the dragonborn. There were no bodies on the ground, save for a few draugr who were meant to guard the soul of Jurgen in his eternal slumber. She approached the tomb where the horn was meant to be resting with its master, but there was no sign of the horn having been there for a while. In its place, an opened scroll sat.

Carefully, she removed it, in the fear it might have been rigged to set off a trap of its own, set years after the tomb had been originally sealed. But, when she lifted it from its perch, and nothing happened, she breathed a sigh of relief.

Her eyes scanned the paper she held in her hands, and crimpled it in anger at the words she read on its page. Someone else had taken the horn, to draw the dragonborn out in the open. She threw the scroll into the water at her feet and ran back the way she had come from, hoping it wouldn't be too late, that she could make it to Riverwood in time to help the dragonborn, if that was what the Nord truly was. She hoped he would not succumb to the sword of an enemy before then. Already he had hours on her.

She used her magic to call upon the wind and the tempest to aid in her travel. Any who may see her pass them on the road would recall only a cool wind, and maybe the blurred image of something they would interpret to be a bird of some kind, passing them by. But nothing more. However, she was lucky, and passed none on the road.

An hour sooner than it would normally take, she made it to Riverwood, and entered the inn. There was music by the fireside as the sun began to set, and all the townsfolk seemed very happy with a drink in each hand. None seemed to notice the strange newcomer. Nor did they notice when she approached the innkeeper and said the same words that had been left on the note: "I'd like to rent the attic room please."

"Sorry lass, but there is no attic room, and we're all booked up at the time being. Odd, though, you're the second person to ask for that room in the last couple hours. Is it some sort of secret code you have with Delphine. She left shortly after the last fellow arrived and rented our last room." The man seemed far chattier than he should be, perhaps, she mused, it was because he had had a drink or two himself. But perhaps he was like that in general. She did not know for certain, but she did know that she had to find out where the Nord had gone. And, after a few quick questions was able to determine that it had been the Nord who had been the last to ask about the attic room.

"I've no idea where they've gone off too, but they should be back soon. Delphine is never gone for more than a few days at a time. I can set you up in that fellows room until then if you'd like." He was sweet enough, but she refused his offer. Once he was done with this Delphine woman, he was sure to return to High Hrothgar, and that would be where she would be waiting for him.

Three days passed before he finally made the trek back up the five thousand steps. And she was waiting for him. She knew what he had seen, she had felt the rise of Sahloknir as any other in the province who was able to would have. Just as they had felt his fall, and his removal from Nirn or any other realm in Tamriel, or the world. It was only a matter of time before he returned to High Hrothgar with the horn to prove that he was, truly, the dragonborn.

And no sooner had she given up hope, that he climbed over the nearest hill, weary, bloody, and bruised. But no worse for wear otherwise. His ax had been replaced by a bow, and at his hip he wore a sword and smaller ax, and his strength had since increased.

She was impressed.

As she knew the greybeards would be. But before he made it to their door, she would stop him. She knew what they would say to him, she knew what path they would choose for him without his consent. And she had to stop that. Peace and love were preferred in the world, but sometimes the world truly needed a warrior to mold the peace. The Greybeards seemed to forget that, living so high up on a mountain, separate from the rest of the world and it's strife.

"Wait!" she called as she jumped out from behind a different boulder than she had hid behind the last time she had seen him. "Please! Dragonborn, I must speak with you!"

He paused halfway up the steps, and turned to face her. His eyebrows were set in a scowl, and his eyes showed annoyance at the interruption. "What d'ye want?" he spat at her, his words mixed together in the same, gruff, tenor of a Nordic man. Her own brows furrowed.

"Is that the way your mother taught you to speak to women, especially women in need? Nevermind, that is unimportant. Please, you have to listen to what I have to say before you go in there. It is about the dragons."

"What of them?" he said with a shrug. "they're causing trouble across the land, _my_ land. And I've a right to put a stop to it. If you think you are going to convince me otherwise you have another thing coming."

"You are the dragonborn. You are the voice between the race of man and serpent. Do you not wish to know what your true, forgotten purpose is? Tell me, what is your name?"

The Nord sighed, and spun around fully so she could see his brute strength, and, hopefully, cower away from him. But, what he did not realize was, she was much braver and stronger than he, even if she did not appear to be. That was all part of her ruse. He would find that out eventually. He looked at her, and his jaw dropped. The woman was not afraid, for one. And another, she was no ordinary woman. She was an elf. And no ordinary elf either.

Falmer.

"My name is Ilumé. What is yours?"

He blinked a few times, unsure of what to make of the Falmer before him. He had thought they were all dead, or mutated. But this one stood before him as perfect as the pictures in children's story books.

"I am Brynjar. Brynjar Winter-Flame."


	2. By Firelight

The music was loud that night, and the patrons were well beyond their usual level of drunkenness and mischief. The fire roared to life many hours before, continuously stoked by the kitchen staff in back as they made their way round with food and drinks ordered minutes, even hours, beforehand. If they were late, the guests didn't seem to mind, all were too busy listening to the minstrel strum his lute and sing his wistful songs of the lands he travelled.

Among all this merriment, the Bannered Mare was making much coin, for where else would drunken travellers find rest, if not with the women of Whiterun who offer their services for the small payments the men there offered.

All was joyful. Even Hulda at the bar wore a smile on her face.

In the farthest corner from all the commotion sat two, dark figures. A man, and a woman. Though he drank, he bore no joy in his endless depths called eyes, and she, though covered from head to toe and you could not see her face, seemed nervous and often found herself reaching for the small dagger at her side.

None there paid them much mind. To them, nothing could ruin such a wondrous evening, not even the foreboding presence of the duo.

"Do you truly think it wise to meet here? In Whiterun? The fact that it is a city filled with others who may overhear us is one reason why I would have chosen some place more private." Ilumé said in a hushed tone as her eyes darted around them. Both had arrived at the inn separately, neither willing to trust the other as of yet as a travel companion. Her mare was tethered not far from Honningbrew Meadery, well away from prying eyes, in case she should need to make a quick escape. "As for another reason, the one who took the horn of Jurgen Windcaller might happen upon us here. We should be more careful. There are those about who would want to use you and your powers to do evil things, unspeakable things."

"And how do I know you aren't one of 'em?" he spat, not nearly as quietly as she. His drink dripped from his beard, and as he wiped the excess away he let out a great, bellowing belch that seemed to please him. He patted his stomach and let out a sniffle before taking another swig of his mead. He certainly was not the most elegant creature, that was for sure. But Ilumé knew that it didn't matter whether he didn't wash his hands before every meal, or take any regular baths as most seemed to do. He was important, he was key to her survival, and she would have to learn to look past all that in order to continue living. "This is the perfect place for a meeting between two people who don't know each other very well. These people won't bother us, but they will know who to look for should something happen to either of us. Now, will ye take your hood down, enjoy the fire, the food, and the rich aromas from the cooking fire."

She starred at their surroundings a moment, her lips pursed from worry. "I can't do that. Though you may not be overly taken by my appearance, others have been, and I do not need any more attention drawn to me than is necessary."

He shrugged before biting into the mutton that had been placed before him on the table. His big, brute hands made the large chunk of meat appear small, and Ilumé stared at him a moment, wondering if having brought herself to his attention had been such a good idea to begin with. In a normal fight, he would surely overpower her. His arms were nearly thrice as thick as hers, and his legs the size of half-grown trees. He was as violent as they come, she had observed this when he entered the inn, all had cowered away from him until he had taken his seat in the back. A few of the better armoured guards seemed to wince in recollection of boughs they had taken with him in the past. Some even still nursed old wounds.

An arrow in the knee was something that these men would have gladly given their injuries for in exchange.

"As I'm sure ye've had happen elsewhere. Shouldn't ye be used to it by now?" he chewed his morsel thoroughly before spitting a bone out on the floor and taking another bite. She had yet to touch her food, and knew she probably wouldn't. The smells of the cooking fire overwhelmed her senses and turned her stomach. Not that they were disgusting scents, nor would the food more than likely taste bad. She was just used to eating certain delicacies the Nords would not be able to bring her. "I mean, there can't be many Falmer who haven't found themselves in such an ugly state as most 'ave. "

"That isn't the point here Brynjar," she said with a roll of her eyes. She had to hold back a small grin as he jumped at the sound of his name. It appeared that he had not expected her to remember it. Which, didn't surprise her with the way her half-blooded cousins had been treating his people as of late. To them he was probably known as "maggot", "nord", "pale skin", "snow skeever", or some other form of derogatory term. Which, posed a question. "Are you involved with the Sons and Daughters of Skyrim? The Stormcloak Rebellion?"

Brynjar paused a moment, staring at her from over the top of his ale mug. "Aye, in a way I s'pose I am. What is it of your concern elf?"

"I just wondered if we would be able to get along at all. Your Stormcloaks seem to have a bias against all elves from what I've gathered. Isn't that right?"

Brynjar put his mug down and stared at her from under furrowed brows of anger. She stared back, her gaze unwavering, and her eyes did not blink more than a handful of times during the exchange. She would not be made to look like a coward by looking away, nor would she give him the satisfaction of having a stronger will than she. "Ye have no idea what the Stormcloaks think. Aye, some may have it out for all the likes of your kin. But not all. I am not a member, no. But tha' does not mean I have it out for all elves. Those of the Bosmer, Thalmor, Altmer, Dunmer or even the dregs of the underground cities tha' have come to be called Falmer, who have not done wrong to any other creature is any friend of mine. Those who have wronged my kin or the kin of any other races will have made an enemy with myself. They may not realize it, but I view all with clear eyes and clear conscious. Do not think otherwise or we shall have a bit of a problem."

"Understood." She turned her head then, to look out the nearby stained glass window. The night had fallen quickly over the town, winter was closing in fast, and she could not help but feel a chill as she drifted off into her thoughts. "Brynjar there is much we have to learn about each other. I wish to teach you all that I know, and all that I can. But, we both know you have many other priorities, and many other, more important, things will pop up in the near future. You may not yet be ready to learn what I have to teach. Or, you may not want to learn. That is what I am here to find out. If you are ready. As well as answer any questions you may have."

"Who are you?"

She stopped, a moment, and starred at the brute before her. She was certain she had already discussed this with him. She distinctively remembered giving him her name. Or, at least, she thought she had. "I've already told you. My name is Ilumé." Her response did not seem to faze him. He merely shook his head and leaned in closer, his eyes holding hers, making it impossible to look away.

"Nay, I mean, who are you? Really? Falmer haven't been seen in who knows how many lifetimes. You've never been seen around these parts by any I've talked to. And, you seem to think to know all there is about the dragonborn. So, I will ask you again. Who. Are. You?"

"I have no idea what you mean," Ilumé said slowly. She felt he could see right through her, but his eyes, searching hers, seemed convinced that she was telling the truth, even if his gut was telling him otherwise. "I am who I say I am. Not all of my kin are dead or deranged. Most have long since gone into hiding, and would love to stay that way if possible. But, if you are so sure I am truly lying to you then I will gladly take you to them, to have them prove I am who I say I am."

Brynjar shook his head, and with a sigh, leaned back in his chair. "Alright, alright. I believe ya." He folded his arms across his chest. "But you still have to prove to me you've no hidden agenda. Should we be spending more time together I need to know if you can truly be trusted."

"And how can I do that?" she asked with an amused sparkle in her ice blue eyes.

"Prove you have what it takes to last in a battle," he said without taking his eyes off her. "With a dragon."


	3. Banshee

She could not remember the last time her heart had raced so fast.

Nor could she remember the last time she had been so out of breath, so tired, her legs felt like they were weighed down by rock and mud. She dared not look behind her, as she ran, afraid that what might be chasing her would catch up. She had not seen it. Only had she seen Brynjar racing towards her, eyes wide with horror, screaming at her to run.

Screaming at her to not look back.

So, she had done as he had wished. Though, she would not be able to explain why. Perhaps it had been something in his eyes, the fear, or the way he had been so forceful when he told her. All she knew was she had to keep running, whatever was after them, if Brynjar was even still behind her, would surely kill them if they were caught.

She tripped over a loose stone in the path that led up the mountain slope. She did not know where it was going, or how far it went. She was uncertain about a lot of things, and she didn't like it. Not one bit. Curse that Nord for leading her here, on their way to Kynesgrove. It looked like there would soon be only one option.

For her to use magic so old, so forbidden, she dared not even consider it. For she knew, the moment she did, Alduin would sweep down from the skies in a bolt of fire and end her life.

In a mortal body, even the immortal could die.

Her chest seized up on her, but she dared not stop. She knew that she was over working herself. She had not seen much physical restraint before, but neither had she pushed herself so far.

Whatever was following her shrieked. And she fell.

Somewhere along the path, she lost her focus. Her vision blurred beyond the ability to make out shapes, and somewhere she tripped over the edge.

If it wasn't for her quick reflexes, she would have surely fallen to her death. But she spun around just in time, as she fell, to grab hold of the edge of the cliff. She gasped for air, and continuously blinked to try and clear her vision. To hopefully see if there was time to save herself before her pursuer caught up to her. And, she hated to admit it, hoped he had not heard her scream of terror as she had fallen.

However, as she looked back down the path she had just finished running down, she knew she was wrong. Had she turned the corner, she surely could have found somewhere to hide, but because of this simple mistake she was doomed. It had seen her. And it, was a dragonpriest.

Mind you, it was an undead dragonpriest. But a dragonpriest none the less. This scared her, she knew if Brynjar was not directly behind her, he had surely been incapacitated in the very least, if not killed him. Either way, it would be after her next.

"Xarxes backside!" she cursed under her breath as it locked onto her, its eyes glowing with the power it once held in its life. Though it wore a mask, very proudly, she could still see his undead eyes. They stared deep into her soul, and though she could not see his face, she knew he was grinning. "Brynjar!" she screeched out into the mountains, hoping he would hear her, that he had gotten away from this evil creature and could come to her rescue.

Though she knew this would be highly unlikely. After all, he had run from the priest before, which meant he would be unable to kill its old soul. She would have been able to, once upon a time, and perhaps had they combined their current skillset they could have defeated him. But Brynjar did not yet trust her, and had decided to scout on ahead. He 'had a feeling', and though she had one too, she had kept her mouth shut. She knew there were bad omens about, but had thought them to be of the draugr or, at the very least, a hagraven. Nothing as strong as a dragonpriest. Which begged another question, why was a priest so close to Whiterun? There were no significant tombs or dragon mounds near there, as far as she could recall. There was really no reason for it to be there, buried or otherwise.

" _Falmer, of skin so fair. Why doth you travel with no escort of significant power?"_ the priest hissed at her in the dragon tongue. She glared at him, but bit her tongue. Though he spoke, she knew he was baiting her. He was dead, and still held all his power, he would have to kill her before she gave him any information to pass along to the king of shadows.

He stood above her, and she spit at his feet. He hissed again, jumping back in anger, and took his staff in hand, ready to strike. " _Such disrespect for one of such power!"_ he raised his staff and the clouds above them grew dark.

" _You'll not last long on this plane of existence. The dragonborn comes. He will destroy Alduin and any who follow him,"_ she spoke back to him, stunning the creature momentarily. " _The bringer of the end times will be beaten, bringing in a new era of peace. And there is naught you can do to stop it."_ She smirked as he starred at her, surely with his mouth agape, but she could not tell for sure.

I nstead of questioning her on this knowledge, he snarled at her. " _Foolish mer! None can destroy the great black dragon!"_

He raised his staff high and lightning flashed in the sky. The storm around them began to build up, and she could feel the strength of its power. Surely, he thought she must be frightened. Truth be told, she should have been. But, she had a feeling that this was not where she was meant to have her life taken from her. The gods had more in store for her, and would not let her fall so quickly.

His snarl grew into a torturous laugh and his eyes became fierce with his confidence. He felt he was going to succeed in his mission here, and then return to whatever he had been up to beforehand. But, before he had the chance to strike her, though she had closed her eyes expecting to feel his wrath, he was tackled to the ground by Brynjar. He let out a great howl as he pulled his sword from his tunic belt and swung it at the priests face. The mask cracked and the priest fell backwards, lost his footing, and hit the back of his head off a boulder, knocking him out momentarily.

"You alright Falmer?" he said gruffly as he picked her up and placed her down beside him on the cliff.

"If you don't start using my name I won't be," she said as she gritted her teeth and pulled her bow off her back and nocked an arrow into the notch. She pulled back on the string and eyed the priest as he began to stir. "This is going to be difficult, you do realize."

"Aye, I do," he said with a smirk as he held his sword tighter and pulled his shield off his back. "You goin' t'be able to handle it?"

"You'll see," she said as she darted off behind him. He turned to follow her with his gaze, to find out where she was slinking off to, and saw she had climbed the rock wall the priest had fallen against, and was currently using to lift himself up off the ground, holding his balance. Here she sheltered herself between two boulders, ones that hid her perfectly from view. And, with a nod of his head in understanding, he waited for the moment to strike.

She shot her first arrow just as the priest lunged towards Brynjar. He snarled and lost his footing once more, the arrow stuck out from his left shoulder blade, which would cause any mortal being a great deal of pain. However since he was dead he felt next to nothing. He started to turn to face Ilumé but before he got the chance Brynjar struck. He threw his dagger right at the mask, which had already cracked in several places, and it stuck right between the eye slits. Brynjar smirked as Ilumé moved with the shadows of the rocks and fired another arrow at the priest. His snarls grew angrier and angrier with each blow they hit him with.

He was no match for the pair, which both shocked and unnerved the Nord.

" _I'll have you both dead before the next sun sets!"_ the priest shrieked at them, though to the Nord it sounded not much different than a serpents hiss. The undead's voice was muffled by the mask, and his lack of skin covered lips beneath it, so it was difficult for Brynjar to make out much. But Ilumé could hear. Her elven ears could make out every single word spoken in the ancient language of dragons, and it made her blood boil.

"Let us end this Brynjar!" she called out, bringing the priests attention her way. She fired off an arrow into the eye socket of the mask, and once more the priest shrieked. This time, she could both feel and hear its pain. Brynjar could see what she was planning on doing. Though he did not necessarily know why.

Break the mask, they would break his power.

He gripped his ax tighter in his hands and lunged forward, bringing it into contact with the creatures face at the exact same time Ilumé fired off another arrow into the second eye socket before the priest had time to remove the first and attack. He fell backwards shrieking so loud the villagers and farmers in Whiterun would have certainly heard it if the wind had not been directed off towards Falkreath. It was then that Brynjar used the broader end of his ax to knock the remaining arrows even deeper into the mask. It cracked, split, and eventually shattered over the undead's face.

The near empty eye sockets looked up at the Nord, shock and fear evident in what little features the creature still held on its face. For a moment, Brynjar just stood there, unable to do anything. Had the creature more time to recover he certainly would have been cut down right there. But, thankfully, Ilumé was there and she called him back to the planes of Nirn as she raced towards him.

"Quickly! Remove his head! Brynjar!" she could see he was shocked by the sight before him. Knew if he could not move in time, she would certainly not make it to him before the priest could attack. But, luckily the nord was no fool. He pulled his ax back and with one, smooth, arc of his weapon, he decapitated the dragonpriest without further hesitation.

It was over. They were safe. They had won.

"Thank the eight!" she said when she finally reached her companion. Her chest was still sore, and she clutched at it a moment before realizing they had both suffered wounds that would need tending sooner or later.

"Let's get us somewhere safe, set up camp for the night," the Nord said before she could say anything further. He could tell his wounds were not too severe, and aside from looking a little paler than normal, the Falmer seemed fine. She nodded in response and held her cloak tighter around herself. He would have allowed her to follow behind him, but after she stumbled trying to reach him he forced her to lead the way.

He told her to weave around trees, to watch out for the rocks that lay hidden along the pathway so she would not trip. He helped her up some embankments, and as the light grew fainter, any wounds she may have held he grew blind to. It wasn't until she fainted and nearly fell off a cliff that he realized she was not okay and would not make it to the campsite he had hoped to reach before night overtook them.

"Shit," he muttered under his breath as he picked her up and felt the damp patch on her side. "Stupid falmer. Stupid, stupid falmer. By Akatosh if you don't make it through the night I'll kill you myself."

And into the dark edges of the cliffs he took shelter for the night, building a fire and tending to his injured companion. He had hoped she would have been a better fighter, a smarter fighter, than that, and had hidden herself somewhere out of the dragonpriest's line of sight. But it appeared she would be a hindrance to him after all.

He tore off a piece of his shirt to try and mop up some of her blood. By the light of the crescent moon and the fire it was difficult to tell exactly where it was coming from, and he had no water to wash it away with. He tore off another piece and pressed it against her skin, and immediately she awoke. "What in the name of the eight are you doing?" she gasped as she pulled away from him, wincing as she did so. "And where are we?"

"Not far from our attack," he said as he took another piece of clothing and once more tried to tend to her wound. "I 'ave not much to clean it with, but looks to me like a scrape o' some kind."

"Do you have any ale?" she said as she pulled the soaked shirt away from her side, trying very hard not to scream when parts were stuck to her and she had to rip it away. When that was an issue she merely bit down, hard, on her tongue, and closed her eyes to keep the tears at bay. "That will clean it better than any water ever could."

"Aye, I've a bit, bu' not much left," he replied as he finished a swig of the bottle he had slowly been drinking as he had tried to tend to her wound.

"Pass it here, then," she said and held out her hand, waiting for him to give her the bottle he held onto rather tightly.

"Alright, bu' I want you to be careful with it, eh."

Ignoring him, she poured a little bit over the wound, and took in a hissing breath. She examined the wound closely, to the best of her ability, and when finished she placed the cloth back to it, applying some pressure. "Bad luck, it's worse than either of us thought," she said as she took a deep drink of the ale. "I must have cut myself on one of the rocks when I fell off the ledge earlier. Do you have any needles or twine?"

Brynjar looked at her a moment, he thought he had heard her wrong, but when she waited for him to respond without indicating she had misspoke, he nodded slowly. "Aye, a bit o' fishing twine and a patchwork needle for when I've ruined my clothes and no' enough money to buy new."

"Good," she said as she pulled herself closer to the fire. "Then I'm going to need you to close my wound, since I can not see it very well." She lifted her shirt off of her as best as she could and turned her back to him, allowing him to see only the wound at her side and her back. For a moment, the Nord stared at her, uncertain of what to do.

"Are ye mad?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied.

He took a deep breath and leaned in close to her. She poured a little more of the ale over the wound to clean it, then took another drink. He waited a moment, and looked up at her eyes. She nodded once, slowly, and as he let out the breath he pushed the needle through her delicate skin.

That night, all of Skyrim heard the Falmer's screams and wails of pain and torment. Come the morning, all had barely left their beds, and those that had ventured out into the light of day spoke of the ghostly wail that had kept all up the night before.

They referred to it as the Nótt Gráta of the mountain Banshee.

None wandered the night, not even those of the night, for several nights after. Afraid they would not return home, or see the light of day again.


End file.
